


Encore

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consent Issues, Dream Sex, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Damus of Tarn, a performer at the Vosian Opera, is tasked to spend an evening entertaining a most unusual guest...Deathsaurus of the Tribes of Onyx.  And this dream of an alternate universe will echo in Tarn's waking reality...  Prequel to "Duet: Virtuoso and Troubadour."





	Encore

**Author's Note:**

> It’s not just a dream.
> 
> This story was my way to combine writing something that’s going to have ongoing repercussions for the plot in “Dark and Lonely Side” while also writing an AU in which Damus and Deathsaurus existed at the same point in time. So, yeah, it’s a dream, but it’s one that’s going to affect Tarn in ways that are part of the ongoing plot.
> 
> #
> 
> Marked "dubious consent" in that the performers of Old Vos are expected to provide sexual favours as part of their jobs. Damus is willing to do this, but there's an element of cultural expectation that he do this, and coercion in that there's negative consequences if he refuses. He's just very fortunate that he likes who he ends up with, and would want to do those things with him, even without any cultural expectation or negative reinforcement.
> 
> # 
> 
> Prequel to "Virtuoso."
> 
> #
> 
> A Blessed Yule Solstice to everyone, with particular thanks to all those folks who've supported me over the years with comments and kudos and reblogs and such. This is for you.

_Encore_

Damus of Tarn walked to the front of the stage and bowed to the applauding crowd. 

The stage lights shone brightly in his optics, reducing the audience to black shadows and blurs of motion, but the sound of their hands clapping buoyed his spirit. For just an instant, all optics were on him. For just an instant, he was someone who mattered. 

Then he moved back into his position in the line and the next performer went forward to bow. 

Damus played a very small role in tonight’s production, but it was a speaking role, and he had lines in several songs and an entire verse to himself in the big number. For the first time he was no longer just a member of the chorus. 

Damus stood in the line, smile on his lips, and forced his face to maintain the expression as Crescendo went forward for his bow. 

Crescendo had joined the company just before Damus, and while Damus had hoped to find a friend at his level, Crescendo had insisted on treating him as a rival. He never let Damus forget that he was a Tarnian and an outsider here in the cultured city-state of Vos. Damus was tired of being on the receiving end of Crescendo’s hostility. It gave Damus some satisfaction to know that he was a better singer… 

…but Crescendo was beautiful, with his tall, slim frame and long, graceful wings and handsome facial features. Damus had the voice of an angel stuffed into a cute, compact automobile. He didn’t have the….the _presence_ of a lead, and he feared he might never develop it, particularly not with Crescendo around, keeping Damus forever in his shadow. Damus might finally have a solo role, but Crescendo was understudy to the lead, and tonight the lead was out sick with dry hydraulics and a static-filled cough, giving Crescendo the spotlight to himself. 

Damus wished he could slip back into the role of his character, but it was too late…the show was over, and that other life was out of reach, fading like a dream. Still he did his best to put thoughts of Crescendo out of his mind. He reminded himself that he was a gifted singer and improving daily. He didn’t need to play Crescendo’s stupid power games. His talent would win out over Crescendo’s schemes in the end. 

Damus wished he could believe that, in his spark. 

He lifted his optics to the row of boxes, the best seats in the house, where the powerful and influential patrons sat. Damus recognized Senator Crosscut, who came to performances whenever he could, and Senator Shockwave, who, as usual, was sporting a new paint job on his frame and a new companion at his side. Damus took a look at the box on the far left and felt relief when he saw it was empty. Glissade was not up there, looking down on him. 

The curtains fell. Damus walked off stage, feeling his usual combination of pride in a show well-done and….disappointment, he supposed. He hated leaving his characters behind and returning to his own average little life. 

_Someday_ . Someday he would make it big, and leave mediocrity behind. 

In the meantime, he supposed he’d sluice himself off, make an appearance at the cast party, get some fuel, leave early, and spend the evening curled up in his berth with a book. He always felt a little uncomfortable at social events. Crescendo liked to embarrass him in public. 

In public it was harder for him to hide it if he accidentally broke something. 

Damus wished he could be more outgoing, but with his luck—and his problems controlling the strange power he possessed—he was more likely to shame himself than to make a new friend. Tonight he wanted the security of an evening to himself. 

But before he reached the wash racks, he was intercepted by Pianoforte, the director. “Damus, you mustn’t dawdle,” Pianoforte chided. “Can’t keep the Senator waiting.” 

Damus felt bewildered. “The Senator?” 

Pianoforte frowned. “Didn’t Crescendo tell you?” 

Damus felt his fuel tanks sink. “No.” 

“Senator Shockwave asked Crescendo if he could bring along a friend for a private recital this evening. Crescendo told me he recommended you.” Pianoforte spoke as though he disagreed with that recommendation. He arched an optic ridge. “Are you declining?” 

“No, ah, no sir,” Damus stammered. 

He had no idea why Crescendo would recommend _him_. It had to be a trick, a trap. But there was no way he could tell the director that he was turning down such an invitation, _particularly_ not after that disaster with Glissade. Damus had feared he’d never be asked to a private recital again after he’d screwed up so badly with one of the theatre’s oldest patrons. To decline this invitation would be to indicate to Pianoforte that he was not interested in keeping the patrons happy, and therefore, not interested in building his own career. 

“Then hurry,” Pianoforte urged. He pressed a key to one of the private suites into Damus’s hand. 

Damus nodded and hastened to the wash racks. He cleaned himself quickly, though he took time for a hot wax and some extra buffing. All the while, his thoughts ran around in circles. If this was a trap, he was already in it. All he could do was hope for the best. 

But when he found himself standing in front of the private suite, he felt a flutter of panic in his chest. 

Up until recently he’d only broken _things_. He’d originally wanted to be a musician, but gave it up when he kept damaging his instruments. Fortunately, he’d still had his voice. He’d only needed to overcome his shyness, develop his acting skills—and try not to touch things if he could help it. 

He’d developed a reputation for being a prima donna because he refused to assist with props or sets. He didn’t _dare_. Still, being a diva wasn’t a dealbreaker in his profession, and though he’d been stuck in the chorus for longer than he’d liked, he was also building a reputation as someone bound for bigger things. He would get there if he worked hard and didn’t get caught breaking anything. 

But on the night he’d been summoned to his first private recital, Damus had broken _Glissade._

He’d been saved by a stroke of luck that he still couldn’t believe. Glissade had woken up in hospital the next day and assumed that his time in the berth with Damus had been so intense that he’d given himself a hard reset. 

But Pianoforte had not forgotten Damus calling him in a panic, nor had he forgotten coming to the suite only to discover Glissade unconscious on the floor. The director wasn’t stupid—he’d probably guessed that Damus had had something to do with knocking Glissade offline. Damus had not been asked to attend any private recitals since, and he’d found himself languishing with a bit part when Crescendo was promoted to understudy. 

Tonight, Damus had a chance to redeem himself. He could prove to Pianoforte that he could entertain a patron as well as anyone else in the cast. But it wasn’t until the door started to open that he realized what he was in for. 

Maybe it was good that he didn’t have enough time to become nervous. Nervousness was probably the reason he’d had the problem with Glissade. The wealthy mech had opened Damus’s valve panel and Damus had just…panicked. He’d clutched Glissade’s chest and… 

_You can’t freak out this time. This time you make your patron happy, the way you should._

He should be grateful he was going to be with Senator Shockwave. Shockwave was rather infamous for his constantly revolving cast of partners, but he was also said to be good in the berth, if a little unpredictable. And as Damus summoned the courage to step inside, he remembered that this was no ordinary private recital. Shockwave had asked for Crescendo _and_ Damus. 

_A threesome?_

_Does Crescendo want me to embarrass myself with my inexperience, so he’ll look better in comparison?_

Heads turned towards the sound of the opening door. There was Senator Shockwave, stylish as always in a striking coral paint job that matched the trim on Crescendo’s frame. He held that frame tightly against his side, his arm around Crescendo’s waist. 

Crescendo smirked. “Ah, here he is now,” Crescendo said. “May I present Damus of Tarn.” 

Senator Shockwave released Crescendo to greet Damus with a… Damus was surprised when the Senator’s outstretched hand took Damus’s hand and shook it. He’d expected something more…forward, given the way Shockwave was handling Crescendo. 

“Damus,” the Senator said with a smile. “I’d like you to meet my guest for this evening.” 

Damus had forgotten that the Senator had been sitting with a companion during the performance. 

_A foursome, then?_

But when the Senator pulled Damus through a ninety-degree turn, Damus found himself looking at an empty chair. 

Shockwave also appeared startled. Damus guessed that prior to his arrival, Crescendo had been successfully distracting Shockwave from his companion. 

“He’s a warlord from the Onyx Tribes to the north,” Shockwave murmured conspiratorially. 

Damus had a sudden sensation of disorientation, as though he were slightly out of phase with the world around him. 

There were no Onyx Tribes in the Carpessan Desert…were there? The Get of Onyx had been driven into exile long before Damus came online. By his time, only a scattered few beastformers still survived in the gutters of Tarn and the shadowy warrens of Kaon. 

But Crescendo did not react to Shockwave’s statement, and Damus didn’t dare argue with a patron as influential as the Senator. If everyone else thought the Senator’s statement was factual, Damus would accept it as well. 

Shockwave released Damus and reluctantly disentangled himself from Crescendo to take a few steps deeper into the suite. “Ah….Deathsaurus?” he called. 

The balcony door swung open. 

Damus gasped. 

There was an _animal_ on the balcony—some sort of draconian creature with long wings and a sharp beak and a long, limber tail. Its optics gleamed crimson in the light. He didn’t recognize the species, though one glance told him he was looking at something wild and dangerous. 

“Deathsaurus, come in from there. You’ll scare the populace,” Shockwave chided. 

The animal snorted and changed shape. 

Damus knew—though he couldn’t say _how_ he knew—that the Onyx Tribes were barbarians. They survived by banding together into clans and pitting themselves against the vicious wildlife and harsh weather of the Carpessan Desert. Deathsaurus was all claws and feathers and fangs. His helm was the stylized head of the creature he turned into—no doubt the apex predator of the wasteland. 

With that helm, he looked as though he had four working optics. His gaze fell on Damus, and Damus cringed. 

“Deathsaurus, meet Damus, your companion for the evening,” Shockwave coaxed. 

It felt to Damus as though his fuel pump stopped beating in his chest. 

_This_ was Crescendo’s setup. 

Crescendo was going to spend the evening cavorting with the Senator while Damus… 

While Damus got thrown like bait to this _beast_. 

Damus stood frozen in horror while the Onyx warlord approached. He wished he could summon up enough Vosian arrogance to demand to know who went around with a name like _Deathsaurus_. But the answer was right in front of him. Someone whose alt form could probably bite Damus clean in two. 

Damus supposed that Deathsaurus was handsome enough for those who liked that type. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and solid without being blocky. Indeed, he moved with the lithe grace of a dancer, which was unnerving for someone that big. He was certainly commanding, and his wings swung behind him like a martial cape. Damus admitted that he could understand the appeal of someone so…so _untamed,_ so _unfettered._ There were certainly enough mechs in Vos who liked their outlaw heroes, though more for the romantic image than the reality. 

This was the reality. And Damus was smart enough to be scared. There wasn’t a lot he could do against a mech like this if Deathsaurus took a mind to do something Damus didn’t like. That something might be worse than bad ‘facing. Deathsaurus looked at Damus as though he were considering what part of him to have for an appetizer and what part to save for dessert. 

_He wouldn’t dare kill me, not if he wants to stay on Shockwave’s good side._ The thought didn’t comfort him. What would Senator Shockwave cover up for the sake of an alliance? Likely more than Damus would be comfortable with knowing. 

Deathsaurus stopped a pace away, looking Damus up and down, and then the left corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk, flashing fangs. “And you’re really sure I’m his type?” the warlord inquired. 

Shockwave looked at Crescendo. 

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Crescendo purred, and Damus felt a flash of rage start his fuel pump beating again, pounding out a hammering rhythm. Anger gave him a courage he hadn’t realized he possessed. 

Damus stepped forward and reached out his hand to the barbarian warlord, who looked surprised for only an instant before permitting Damus to guide him to the nearest of two couches. The sofas faced one another across a large table, where an array of snacks and beverages had been laid out for them. Deathsaurus sat obediently and observed as Damus began pouring drinks. Damus had practiced serving endlessly in preparation for his evening with Glissade; he could do this as easily as he could play his role on the stage. 

Damus smirked as Shockwave and Crescendo made their way over. Crescendo sat down practically in Shockwave’s lap. Damus finished pouring the last drink and, with a deep breath, sat down next to Deathsaurus—close enough for his leg to touch the warlord’s. 

It was hard to find a position where he wouldn’t lean back against Deathsaurus’s wing, but Deathsaurus solved it by stretching his wing out along the back of the couch and curling it over Damus like a blanket. 

Well. That was that, then. 

Shockwave led a casual conversation about the city of Vos, the theatre as an institution, and the other points of interest that he could show Deathsaurus on some later day. Damus gathered that Shockwave was attempting to broker a deal between the Onyx Tribes and the Prime, though he could not say whether the Prime wanted the Tribes as allies to help fight the raiders who operated out of the Carpessan Wastes, or whether the Tribes were, in fact, those same raiders and the Prime was hoping to bring them under the rule of law. Shockwave seemed less interested in explaining politics to the two performers and more interested in touching Crescendo’s thigh under the table. 

Again, Damus felt that nagging sensation that something was wrong, that this history didn’t make sense—but he pushed it away to concentrate on his duty. 

He felt shy, and didn’t have much to say. Deathsaurus didn’t talk much either, preferring to ask questions of Shockwave and listen to the answers. As the conversation went on, though, Shockwave became increasingly distracted as Crescendo began to flirt ever more outrageously with him. Damus didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted. Crescendo’s antics—twining his fingers around the Senator’s hand under the table, inviting the Senator to pet his wings, cooing over everything the Senator said—seemed graceless, almost grotesque, except for the fact that they were working. The Senator was obviously pleased by his companion. 

Damus forced himself to take the initiative and ask some questions of Deathsaurus. What he learned was that the Carpessan Desert was somewhere he hoped never to go. Deathsaurus spoke casually of hunting creatures for the fuel in their tanks and making his home in a cave. Damus shivered and wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed that Deathsaurus had not tried to feel him up under the table. 

Before long, the Senator and Crescendo were feeding one another energon goodies, eating out of one another’s palms and laughing, licking up spilled droplets off one another’s frames. Crescendo was all but ignoring Deathsaurus and Damus, while Shockwave—ever more reluctantly—kept breaking away from his companion to contribute to the conversation. Damus dared a glance at Deathsaurus and noticed the warlord smirking, as though laughing at some private joke. Damus felt his fuel tanks twist. 

_Is Deathsaurus laughing at me?_

Damus noticed that Deathsaurus was not offering to feed him any candies, nor would it be seemly for him to initiate such play. 

_Does he think I’m ugly? Is that it?_ Damus knew he was nowhere near as pretty as Crescendo, but… __

He took a deep breath and put his hand on Deathsaurus’s inner thigh in open invitation. 

Deathsaurus didn’t touch him back, but he also didn’t flinch away. His attention was locked on Shockwave and Crescendo, and his expression was an unreadable cocktail of surprise, fascination and concern. Finally—when Crescendo held an energon candy between his teeth, daring Shockwave to kiss it out of his mouth, which he did—Deathsaurus reached his limit. 

The warlord leaned close across the table, smirking as Shockwave swallowed the candy and Crescendo giggled. 

“Would you two like me to give you some privacy?” Deathsaurus inquired. 

Shockwave’s gaze fell on the still-mostly-filled decanters of energon. “We’ve barely put a dent in this,” he said. 

Deathsaurus eyed the paint scrapes on the two of them and said, “You’re about to put more than _a dent_ in each other.” 

Damus was fascinated. The warlord was terribly rude but… Oh, sometimes Damus wished he could get away with actually saying what he was thinking. 

“Jealous?” Crescendo teased. 

Deathsaurus shot him down. “ _Concerned_ that I am burdening the Senator, when an ally’s role is to support him.” He smirked. “If you’d rather have some private time, Senator, I don’t mind. I feel that our alliance is proceeding nicely.” 

Shockwave held up his glass. “As a supportive ally, I should make sure that you have an enjoyable evening.” 

Crescendo pouted, and Deathsaurus smirked. “Don’t linger on my account, Senator. I promise to be on my best behaviour and…” Damus gasped as Deathsaurus wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him to his side. “I have Damus here to keep an eye on me.” 

As if Damus could do anything to stop Deathsaurus if the warlord took a mind to be…antisocial. 

“Well, then,” Shockwave said with a smile, “I’ll see you in the morning, then?” 

_That_ got a reaction. 

“The _morning_?” Deathsaurus repeated, but Crescendo tugged eagerly on Shockwave’s arm, and with an apologetic wave, Shockwave let Crescendo pull him down the hallway, where the berths were. Crescendo, of course, chose the largest room with the best soundproofing. The portal closed behind the two of them, leaving Damus alone with the barbarian. 

“Tell me,” Deathsaurus said, “is that behaviour customary for these, ah, private recitals?” 

Damus forced a smile. “Typically there’s more lingering over the fuel.” 

Deathsaurus raised an eye ridge. “Then it’s not unusual that the Senator was running hot during the performance already, or that I could smell how wet your associate’s valve became the second he walked into the room?” 

Damus almost choked. Nobody in Vos would speak such things so openly, so crudely. “Uh, ahem, no.” 

Deathsaurus leaned closer and ran a taloned finger along Damus’s jaw. “What is expected of us, Damus?” 

Damus had no words to _explain_ the concept of a private recital. “Ah, er, it’s my duty to ensure that my patron—my patron’s guest—has an enjoyable evening.” 

Deathsaurus’s optics—all four of them—flickered as he inhaled deeply. “Enjoyable, like those two? All the way to morning?” 

“If you’d like.” Damus resisted the urge to fidget. “There’s private rooms with sturdy berths down the corridor. You can have your pick.” He was scared at the idea of this big warlord taking a sexual interest in him, but he was perhaps more scared at the idea that Deathsaurus wouldn’t find him attractive at all. What would happen to his career if he never entertained a patron again? He could spend his lifetime singing bit parts and filling out the chorus. His talent would only take him so far. 

“Your scent’s unusual,” Deathsaurus murmured. “I can’t read you.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Unlike your friend, you don’t smell like a turbofox in heat.” 

Damus tried not to choke out laughing as he imagined Crescendo on all fours, rubbing up against the Senator’s leg and presenting his aft for mounting. But he didn’t have time to mock his rival. He had to look out for himself. 

“I scare you, don’t I?” Deathsaurus asked, point-blank. 

Damus didn’t know how to wrap _yes_ in euphemisms to reply. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. 

Deathsaurus grinned. “You can say it. I know most of your fellow Vosians don’t care for the sight of me. Senator Shockwave has been greatly amusing himself this past week by taking me places where I’ll stand out.” 

“Ah, but the alliance is still solid?” 

“We share a similar sense of humour.” Deathsaurus laughed and sniffed at Damus again. “But back to you. Alliances aren’t forged by forcing myself on the unwilling.” 

Damus cringed. 

Deathsaurus’s optics flickered dangerously. “This is a duty for you, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. Deathsaurus pressed, “You’ll be punished if you don’t…what?” 

Damus gulped. “I was told to entertain you however you like but but…I think the director expects a few paint transfers.” 

Deathsaurus backed off. “There’s more than one way to trade paint,” he said with a wink. 

“Sir?” 

“You’re here because you’re expected to be. We’ll give your director what he wants to see.” Deathsaurus grinned roguishly as he patted his lap. 

Damus trembled as he eased himself onto the warlord’s lap. He ended up perched on Deathsaurus’s left thigh, and though the position seemed awkward, he wasn’t sure how else he was supposed to sit. Deathsaurus did not seem bothered, though, and Damus thought he should take his comfort where he could. 

Was it really going to be this easy? He and Deathsaurus would—what? Rub against one another until they swapped enough paint to make their story convincing? Would they come up with a story together, in case anyone asked what they’d done together? 

And was Damus completely insane to feel disappointed that tonight’s encounter would be, as with Glissade, another exercise in deception? 

Damus ought to be grateful—Deathsaurus was proving to be far more generous than he could ever dream of expecting from the typical Vosian, and Damus should be relieved that he didn’t _have_ to commit to interface tonight—but his anxiety would not go away. 

“Please. Tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable,” Deathsaurus said quietly. But Damus could not help shivering as the warlord’s taloned hands closed over his shoulders. 

Deathsaurus grew very still and watched Damus intently. Damus guessed that Deathsaurus had felt the tremor in his frame and was now watching him for a cue. 

Damus gulped and put his hands on the curved golden protuberances on the warlord’s chest. 

Deathsaurus’s big engine purred pleasantly under Damus’s touch. Deathsaurus’s hands traced their way down Damus’s back, lightly scratching here and there, until a certain touch _just so_ had Damus gasping. 

He’d never been touched like this. He didn’t know…didn’t know simply a touch under his shoulder blade could feel so good. 

“There’s one,” Deathsaurus murmured, and resumed his scratching in motions that seemed to be some kind of search pattern. 

Damus had never read about this kind of scenario in any of his romance novels, but he guessed that he was beholden to reciprocate. It seemed the polite thing to do. He hoped he could keep control of his jinx long enough to satisfy his partner. 

Damus tried to give Deathsaurus the same kind of rubs and scratches, and soon he was rewarded when his nimble fingers slipped under the featherlike protrusions at the back of Deathsaurus’s neck. “Yes, _there_ ,” Deathsaurus said, and it was less an order than an expression of appreciation. 

Primus help him, but Damus was starting to have _fun_. 

Deathsaurus located another sweet spot on Damus’s back. With one hand over each spot, Deathsaurus scratched them both simultaneously. Damus dimmed his optics and mewed. 

_Maybe I_ should _ask him to frag me. He’d at least be_ nice _about it._

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than Damus found himself doubting it. 

Deathsaurus _said_ pretty things, true, but Deathsaurus’s kindnesses might be an act. Deathsaurus might be willing to start off with _nice,_ but he could easily switch to _nasty_ if he stopped getting his way. Plenty of mechs in Vos played that way. 

But Deathsaurus…Deathsaurus wasn’t Vosian, and maybe that was worse, because a creature in rut didn’t know how to stop once its lusts had been inflamed. Damus was afraid that the beast, once aroused, might be far rougher than his small frame could take. Damus felt his spark wrench. He’d hoped his first time would be a gentle initiation. He didn’t know if Deathsaurus had any idea of how to be gentle during interface. 

_An alliance is at stake. And you trained for this. You tell your patron you’re having a lovely time even if it hurts._

Damus set his resolve, but he couldn’t help feeling afraid. The heady delight he’d felt at Deathsaurus touching him, and the pride he’d experienced as he’d made Deathsaurus purr for him, turned cold and evaporated. Anxiety and fear and nervousness and pressure built on him, growing exponentially, until all that roiling energy had to go somewhere. His hands tingled. His chest ached. 

_No. Oh no, no…_

Desperately, Damus slid his hands over Deathsaurus’s chest. 

“That’s good,” Deathsaurus purred in his audio. “Just like that.” 

His patron had spoken. He couldn’t stop. Not even when his hands began to throb, or when his fuel pump started skipping beats. He felt as though he were holding back a flood, and for every second he resisted, the pressure multiplied. 

He had to keep going until Deathsaurus was satisfied. No matter what it cost him. 

Pain blacked out his vision, wracked his frame… 

_Hang on a little longer. Just a little longer. Just…_

Damus jerked his hands away, but it was too late. Both palms delivered a jolt into the left side of Deathsaurus’s chest. 

Deathsaurus quaked under him. Damus’s vision cleared in time to see Deathsaurus’s head snap back, his optics flaring red with shock. 

_Glissade all over again._

Damus tried to jump off of Deathsaurus’s lap and fell on the floor instead. The warlord slumped to the left as his frame went weak on one side. His optics dimmed to embers. 

Damus panicked. What was he supposed to do now? He didn’t dare call Pianoforte for help. Once was an accident but twice was a _pattern_ that pointed a damning finger back at Damus. His secret would be out and he would be shunned as the menace he was… and he’d never sing on stage again. He’d be lucky to stay out of _prison_ , what with the new laws the Functionists were passing… 

Damus jumped to his feet and found himself praying to a God he wasn’t entirely sure existed that Deathsaurus was tough enough to come out of it on his own. 

On the other hand, could he let Deathsaurus—Deathsaurus who had been so kind to him—suffer, maybe even die, because Damus was a screw-up? No. That was wrong. Damus was a screw-up, maybe even a monster, but not a coward. 

Gulping, Damus opened his comm link. 

Before he could speak, he heard motion. 

Deathsaurus had lurched onto his right side and half-fell, half-slid off the couch, transforming as he did so. The warlord, in alt mode, landed awkwardly on the floor, but it didn’t take long for the creature to get his forelegs under him and lift his head. His gaze—only two optics now—locked on Damus’s. The beak gaped, flashing a remarkable number of teeth. 

Damus gulped. He’d never considered this option: Deathsaurus seemingly unharmed and _angry._

Deathsaurus hissed, and Damus almost ran away screaming, but…who would he run to? Where would he go? There was no retreat that would not involve awkward questions, and no lie Damus could think of that could justify running out of a private recital. Not when Deathsaurus would tell everyone that Damus had assaulted him somehow. 

Damus watched Deathsaurus stalk towards him, his optics glowing a hungry ruby shade. 

Damus looked his death in the face and realized that he was not nearly as frightened as he thought he ought to be. This end was preferable to calling Pianoforte and facing the shame of his nature, the disgust of his fellow actors and the slow, painful ignominy of starving to death on the streets. He hoped Deathsaurus would make it quick and clean. 

Damus’s only regret was…well… 

He really _had_ liked being so close to Deathsaurus. He’d loved the way Deathsaurus had encouraged him, had respected him, had seemed to care about his welfare. He was sorry he’d ruined it. 

At least Deathsaurus was okay. 

Then Damus looked closer and realized that Deathsaurus wasn’t okay, not really. His left hind leg dragged on the ground. His right wing flared in a threat display but his left wing drooped, trailing across the carpet. His head canted to the left. The optic on his left side was dim. His tail thumped instead of lashing properly. 

He was hurt. Not anywhere nearly as badly as Glissade, but Damus had still hurt him. It just hadn’t stopped him. 

He cocked his head and pinned Damus in the glare from his good optic. 

“Is this what you are?” Deathsaurus hissed. “An assassin?” 

Damus was ready to die, but he didn’t want Deathsaurus to think he’d hurt him out of malice, not when the warlord had been so kind. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. 

“And I thought the alliance was going so well, too,” Deathsaurus mused. He smiled, his beak making a grotesque parody of his bot mode smile, and a thousand needle fangs glittered with menace. 

Damus’s systems spiked with panic, but less at the sight of the teeth than at the thought in his head. If Deathsaurus thought Senator Shockwave had hired him as a hitman…all of Vos, as well as the Onyx Tribes, would suffer for Damus’s mistake. 

“Or are you an outsider?” Deathsaurus pressed. “Sent by someone else who wants the alliance to fail?” 

“It was an accident,” Damus blurted. “Please don’t blame the Senator. It was my mistake. I’m sorry, Deathsaurus, I didn’t mean to.” He stumbled backwards, less out of fear for his life than fear that Deathsaurus wouldn’t believe him. He needed to live long enough to convince him. “It was an accident,” he repeated. 

Deathsaurus came to a stop, looming over him, and lowered his beak to an inch shy of Damus’s face. “An accident?” the warlord queried. 

Damus flushed with shame. “I’m sorry. I get nervous and…I break things.” 

Deathsaurus took a step backwards. 

“Usually it’s objects. Lately it’s….” Damus hung his head, wishing Deathsaurus would get on with destroying him already. “Lately it’s people.” 

He was going to die, and he deserved it. He accepted that. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Deathsaurus nudged Damus’s chin with a beak that was, to Damus’s surprise, closed. The warlord trilled, an animal sound of inquiry. “It happens when you touch?” 

“Yeah.” Damus felt humiliated. “It’s hard to control. If I stop concentrating on holding back, I break things. And if I’m worked up, holding back is harder.” 

Deathsaurus trilled again, louder. “I _worked you up_?” he asked, and he sounded almost flirtatious. 

Damus began to suspect he might not die here after all, which opened up a whole host of other problems. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Damus said. He felt panic rising inside him again. He didn’t want to live, not if it was just to be humiliated and cast out before he starved or fell prey to the gutter vermin. “If Pianoforte finds out he’ll fire me from the theatre and I…I spent all my savings getting this job. I have no other skills. I have nowhere to go.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “I can’t believe you’re still working here. You _do_ realize what an asset you’d be in policing and interrogation? To incapacitate without killing….” 

Damus cringed. “The Functionists wouldn’t let me. They hate everyone who’s different. Everyone who has talents they can’t understand…” 

“To the Pit with the Functionists.” Deathsaurus lashed his tail. “Do you know what you would be in the Onyx Tribes? I’d take you hunting…you could stun our prey without killing it. _Fresh fuel…_ At night the clans would gather around the fire and consume fresh fuel and listen to you sing…” 

Damus wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. He didn’t want to go live with the Onyx Tribes out in the Carpessan Desert, even if it would be better than begging for a living in the gutters. On the other hand, he had to admit that there was something dangerously appealing about Deathsaurus imagining Damus as part of his life. While he enjoyed the heady sensations that rose in his spark, he also had to remember that he would have but one night with Deathsaurus. Then Deathsaurus would be off with Shockwave to tour the sights of Vos and finalize their alliance, while Damus went back to performing and entertaining the next patron who requested his services. 

“I didn’t incapacitate you,” Damus said sullenly. 

“You should have,” Deathsaurus said bluntly. 

Damus blinked, startled. 

“Look.” Deathsaurus moved his left wingtip forward, though Damus noticed it didn’t lift up off the ground. 

Then Damus noticed something else. 

Deathsaurus’s wing— _seethed_ , was the best word for it. As if something were moving underneath the flexible metal hide. 

“What is that?” Damus whispered, fascinated and disgusted in equal measure. 

“Sentio metallico directed by nanobot implants,” Deathsaurus said. “I have…a surplus. I heal very quickly.” He gave Damus a challenging look. “If I were anyone else, I would be unconscious on the floor from that jolt you gave me.” 

Damus’s sense of disorientation and _wrongness_ returned, stronger than ever. What Deathsaurus was saying didn’t seem accurate. Where would anyone get extra sentio metallico? A mech had what he was born with, and no more. 

In fact, the more Damus thought about it, the more his entire circumstances felt unreal. There was something wrong about the way he, Damus, was standing next to Deathsaurus in the Vosian opera. Not wrong as in bad—wrong in the sense of being _incorrect_. 

Damus had the feeling that another few moments of thought would lead to a revelation…possibly that he was dreaming. 

But something about Deathsaurus and the sentio metallico and the nanobot implants…something about that set off a very deep ping in his memory banks, and it said _yes_. 

There followed a bewildering array of thoughts—Grindcore and made-to-order soldiers and sparks contained in photonic crystals, nonsense that made perfect sense and the feeling strengthening that any minute now he would... 

“You can’t hurt me,” Deathsaurus murmured, “not for long, anyway. So…” The creature’s tongue darted out, flicked against Damus’s lips. “So you can touch me, if you like.” 

Damus forcibly shoved the thoughts away. 

If this situation wasn’t real, _he didn’t want to know_. 

Deathsaurus was being kind to him in _spite_ of his awful power, not in ignorance of it, and Damus had precious little comfort in his life. If he were dreaming he could be lonely when he woke. He had suffered enough in his life that he would _not_ be lonely tonight. 

He reached out and tentatively caressed the beast’s cheek. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Are you afraid your secret will come out?” 

Damus nodded. 

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” 

Damus felt a weight lift off his shoulders. The voice of reason warned him that he couldn’t trust Deathsaurus to keep his word. Vos was full of sweet liars who’d say anything in the moment to get their way. 

But what could he do to make Deathsaurus keep his promise? Absolutely nothing. Worrying about it would serve only to ruin the evening. And perhaps…just perhaps…this bluntly honest warlord wouldn’t bother with the dissembling and deception that was so common in Vos. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head and asked, point-blank, a crass question that no one in Vos would ever have the gall to say to someone’s face. “How can you be a courtesan if you struggle to control this power of yours?” 

Damus choked, spluttering. “I’m not a…a courtesan!” 

Deathsaurus merely tilted his head in inquiry. 

“It’s completely different,” Damus protested. _Him_ , common shareware? “I’m a _singer_. But the opera relies on the funding from its wealthy patrons and it’s in our best interests to keep them happy and entertained. It’s a mutual exchange,” Damus added desperately. “It’s an honour to be chosen!” 

“It’s a transaction,” Deathsaurus summarized. 

“It’s my _job_ ,” Damus said, and to his horror, he broke down completely. 

Before he knew it, Deathsaurus changed shape, swept him up in his arms and sat on the couch, Damus held close on the warlord’s lap, Deathsaurus’s wings furled around them both like a blanket. Damus couldn’t stop the whole story from pouring out of him: the years of working a dead-end administrative job while practicing music, the way he broke his instruments, overcoming his shyness to perform as a singer, the grueling auditions, and finally… _finally_ …being accepted to the cast of the opera house, only to have his “bad luck” grow into a jinx and finally a horrific, unasked-for talent that threatened his dreams and, if the Functionists found out, perhaps his life. Damus cringed as he imagined his pathetic tale flowing like a torrent of foul, sticky oil out of his mouth and all over Deathsaurus’s shoulder, smearing the warlord’s neck as Damus sobbed into it, dripping down his chest and puddling around his feet, soiling Deathsaurus with the stain of association. But every time he tried to stop and apologize, Deathsaurus gently nudged his cheek with his nose and whispered a request that he continue. The warlord’s hands traced over Damus’s back, holding him steady, comforting him. 

At long last, Damus’s tale ran dry. He raised his gaze to Deathsaurus and asked in a cracking voice, “Now what?” 

“Are you comfortable?” Deathsaurus murmured. All four of his optics were dim. 

Damus looked down at himself and realized, with some surprise, that he’d unconsciously made his way back onto Deathsaurus’s lap. Not awkwardly perched on his thigh, this time. Damus sat in a kneeling position, his inner calves touching the outside of Deathsaurus’s thighs. He realized with some embarrassment that their panels were pressed together. 

But Deathsaurus had asked him a question and the Onyx warlord likely lacked any sense of impropriety. “Yes,” Damus answered honestly. 

“Then,” Deathsaurus said, “would you like to touch me some more?” 

Damus had thought his whole weeping monologue had explained why him touching anyone was a very bad idea, except that when he looked at his hands, he saw them roving over Deathsaurus’s chest, and he remembered what Deathsaurus had said. _You can’t hurt me…not for long, anyway…so it’s okay to touch._

Damus felt his cheeks blossom with heat. “Is that all right?” 

“You’re doing just fine,” Deathsaurus whispered. “If you need to take a break…ground yourself…you can do that, any time you like.” 

The very reference to his power was enough to make Damus feel anxious. His palms tingled, and he jerked them away from Deathsaurus’s chest. Deathsaurus said nothing. He simply continued caressing Damus’s back as though nothing were amiss. 

Damus pressed his palms against the couch until he felt the tingling in his hands subside. 

He almost wept with relief. He placed his hands on Deathsaurus’s warm shoulders and savoured his new ability to touch without fear. Oh, Primus, he could touch Deathsaurus all night. 

“Touch me anywhere you like,” Deathsaurus murmured in Damus’s audio, and Damus felt a sense of euphoria like none he’d ever known. 

Oh, and he did. He let his hands roam freely over Deathsaurus’s entire frame. Deathsaurus did the same to him, and he felt none of the fear or uncertainty or shame that he’d expected he would feel. He felt proud of his body the way it was, because Deathsaurus certainly seemed to like it and he knew exactly how to make it feel so good. Damus rested his hands when he needed and Deathsaurus never complained, nor did he rush him to hurry and touch again. 

Sometime—and Damus wasn’t sure exactly when—but some time later, Deathsaurus leaned forward and let his nose nudge against Damus’s nose. Damus giggled and nudged back. Deathsaurus repeated the gesture, except this time his lips brushed Damus’s. Damus grinned, picking up on the game, and did to Deathsaurus what Deathsaurus had just done to him. 

And then they were kissing. 

Damus pulled away, shocked, remembering almost too late to ground himself. Deathsaurus cocked his head, watching Damus’s response, and Damus knew that it was going to be up to him to initiate if he wanted to do it again. 

And he did. Oh, how he did. 

He put his hands on Deathsaurus’s shoulders and leaned forward. His hands prickled with nerves, but Damus found courage he didn’t know he had and he pressed his lips to Deathsaurus’s, quickly, before fear could talk him out of it. 

Deathsaurus returned the kiss and the fear melted away. The needle sensation in his hands faded away, leaving only the warmth of their frames behind. 

Damus might have gasped. The warm, sweet slide of Deathsaurus’s tongue against the tip of his own had him panting for breath the instant the kiss broke. 

Deathsaurus smiled broadly, but he didn’t laugh, and Damus didn’t feel humiliated by the strength of his reaction. Damus could feel the warlord’s engines purring through his chest. Damus knew he was making Deathsaurus happy. 

And it was so easy. It felt so good to do what pleased them both… 

When Damus stepped out onto the stage, he always felt nervous and uncertain, until suddenly gears shifted in his head and he got lost in the music, submerging his consciousness and surrendering himself to the song. The role he played took over his body; he embodied the character, made it real. It _became_ him. He never felt any fear when he was possessed by his role; Damus and all his anxieties became as nothing. 

So, too, did his thoughts shift now. 

Except this time he was still himself, or rather, a version of himself that might as well be a character, for how ludicrous it would be if he thought about it—him, Damus, the lover of a barbarian warlord? Thinking would bring him back to reality, so Damus did not think. He let himself go and let the role subsume him. 

He lifted his head and pressed his mouth to Deathsaurus’s. 

Damus did not notice time passing as he and Deathsaurus kissed again and again while exploring each other’s mouths and frames. Damus did realize that sometimes the kisses were slow and lingering, sometimes sweet and gentle, sometimes hard and hungry and devouring. Eventually, Damus also realized that heat was building between his thighs, particularly when they kissed hot and deep. He didn’t know if that was Deathsaurus’s arousal radiating warmth or if his own frame was blazing with lust of its own accord, but he did know that things were getting hot and if he didn’t watch himself, one or both of them would pop their panels, and who _knew_ what might happen then… 

…who was he kidding? He knew very well what would happen then. 

_Interface_ . 

Just _thinking_ about it made him shiver. Deathsaurus must’ve felt the tremor in his frame, because the warlord’s roving hands fell still, leaving Damus to cry out in need. 

“How are you doing?” Deathsaurus purred. His voice had taken on a low, growling note. _Animalistic._ Damus should be repelled, but his engine revved hard at the sound. 

“Good,” Damus said breathlessly. “Please let’s not stop.” 

“As you say,” Deathsaurus replied agreeably and they were kissing again. 

Damus ground his panel against Deathsaurus’s. Even this much contact felt wonderful. He squirmed until he found an angle that put pressure on his anterior node, even through the panel, and oh, it felt good, it felt so good, he swore he’d overload just like this if only Deathsaurus would keep touching him for just a few…moments…more… 

# 

Damus woke up with a start, his fans running hot and his intakes gasping for air, staring up at a strange ceiling with a mask over his face. 

His building overload fell away from him abruptly. As always, because no matter how spicy his dreams, he’d never been able to climax in his sleep. 

The Onyx Barbarian from the Carpessan Desert….nothing more than a dream. 

But oh, how he wished it had been real. 

His frame still radiated heat, quivering with pent-up desire. Ordinarily he’d drop his hand to his panel and finish the matter himself, but before he could, he realized with another shock that he wasn’t alone in this berth. He sensed warmth beside him and turned towards it automatically, fearing what he might see. 

Deathsaurus, in his alt mode, snoozed next to him in the dark. 

Strange how his first feeling at recognizing the creature was not discomfort but _relief_. Anyone would be put off by such a monstrosity in the berth, and yet Damus felt as though he had somehow pulled Deathsaurus out of his thoughts and into his reality. _Fear_ was the way he’d felt as he’d rolled over, when he hadn’t known if Deathsaurus was merely part of his dream. The discovery that Deathsaurus was not only real but _in the berth with him_ made him feel unutterably hopeful—that maybe, despite this foreign room with its oily scents and strange background noises, despite the odd heaviness in his frame and the cold mask on his face, maybe somehow he was in a good place. 

And then his memory banks dumped millions of years of memories into his consciousness. 

Damus—Tarn—sat upright in the berth, running his clawed hands over the smooth metal of his mask. His systems spiked with natural enhancers that didn’t come anywhere near the kick of nuke, but they were enough to get his fuel pump hammering and his fuel tanks churning. His arousal vanished. He felt panicked. He felt sick. 

He hadn’t thought of himself as “Damus” in well over two million years. 

He’d believed information creep had stolen much of his earliest memories. He’d _hoped_ it had. Damus had been a _nothing_ , an exercise in wasted potential, and Tarn didn’t know what had been worse: Damus’s constant screw-ups, or the prices he’d paid, over and over, for things beyond his control. What was worse—to be an embarrassing disaster, or the helpless victim of circumstance? 

Damus was better forgotten. 

And here Tarn was in Deathsaurus’s private quarters, this crowded, cluttered room next to the bridge, because he’d once again been fool enough to respond to yet another crassly worded booty call from his present ally and former target. 

Tarn took a deep breath, drawing cool air into his intakes, waiting for his fuel pump to return to its regular rhythm and hoping he wouldn’t wake up Deathsaurus. 

Too late. The creature’s head rose from the berth, optics glowing in the dark, but when its beak opened, Deathsaurus’s ordinary voice came out. “Are you all right?” 

_Why_ was he constantly surprised by intelligent conversation emitting from Deathsaurus’s alt mode? It wasn’t as though the mind or spark inside the frame had changed. 

“Y-yes,” Tarn said, stumbling on his words, because the first thing on his lips had been a question: _could you love me if I were Damus?_

Fortunately he’d caught himself. Deathsaurus had no idea of who Tarn was under the mask, and he was going to _keep_ it that way. Damus was not a person worth knowing. Deathsaurus had been affectionate to Damus in a _dream—_ in Tarn’s imagination. It was a fantasy borne of wishful thinking that had no basis whatsoever in reality. 

Deathsaurus snorted and nuzzled his beak into Tarn’s neck. Tarn felt a flicker of moisture as Deathsaurus’s tongue ran over his throat—the closest they had come to a kiss. 

Tarn was all but overcome with the urge to shove up his mask and kiss Deathsaurus. If he did, surely Deathsaurus would change modes and kiss him back properly. He remembered his dream, how it had felt to kiss Deathsaurus, how it had _tasted_ … 

He wanted it. He wanted it _so much_. 

_You can’t have it because if you take that mask off, if you stop being Tarn, you’re worse than nothing._

_Deathsaurus couldn’t possibly love you then._

Tarn wasn’t even sure that Deathsaurus loved him _now_. He might be _fond_ of him, but that was not the same as _love_. Affection had not made Deathsaurus in any way submissive, not the way Tarn—Glitch—had given his whole self to Megatron; and if Deathsaurus’s feelings for him were a cocktail of comradeship and lust, well, that was different from actual _love_ , wasn’t it? 

Deathsaurus pulled away and looked at Tarn silently for a moment. Then he laid his head back down on the pillow and dimmed his optics. 

Tarn felt his spark wrench. 

_I want to kiss you._

_I want you to love me. Actually love me._

_I want you to love me for everything I am._

_I…_

Tarn had no words for what he felt for Deathsaurus. It wasn’t the all-consuming devotion he’d offered to Megatron; the gift that Megatron had spat on and thrown away. It wasn’t his desperate infatuation with Skids, or his twisted appreciation for Pharma. It was…it was… 

It was a mess, was what it was, and he dropped to his side, clinging tightly to the beastformer next to him, wishing for things he couldn’t have and longing for something he couldn’t even name. 


End file.
